It was an evening in early April, of the new term after the Easter vacation, that a number of freshmen, who had taken part in the lively scene of the afternoon, and some students who had not, met silently and stealthily back of the boathouse on the back of Sunny River. The night was cloudy, and thus it was darker than usual at that hour.
“Have you fellows got the rope?” asked Langridge in a whisper, as he took his place at the head of the little force.
“Of course,” answered Phil Clinton.
“There’s no ‘of course’ about it,” retorted Langridge arrogantly. “I’ve seen the time it’s been forgotten.”
“What are we going to do with it?” asked Sid Henderson.
“Use it to hang a soph with,” spoke Holly Cross. “Prepare to meet thy doom!” he added in a sepulchral voice.
“Cut it out, Holly,” advised Langridge. “I’m afraid the sophs are on to us as it is.”
“Then we’ll rush ’em!” exclaimed Phil Clinton aggressively.
“No, that won’t do any good. We’d never get the clapper, then.”
“I know a good way,” spoke Fenton. “My uncle says——”